


Lovely Way to Burn

by mwestbelle



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-21
Updated: 2011-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwestbelle/pseuds/mwestbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank is no stranger to sickness. He's been wheezing his way in and out of hospitals since he was a kid, but things are different now. He was already pulled from two assignments due to illness, and the third time is the charm. Three strikes and you're out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovely Way to Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [yobrothatssick](http://yobrothatssick.livejournal.com), prompt #39: "Frank/Gerard, AU - Frank is in some unequal partnership with Gerard (e.g., F is a secretary/assistant/butler/valet/page/employee/thrall/slave/sub/intern/boarder/etc), and is... SECRETLY SICK AND HIDING IT. AND THERE IS HURT/COMFORT. please! (preferably NOT an established (romantic) relationship)" I went with slave!
> 
> Huge thanks to anoneknewmoose for making me actually write this and coming through with a lightning fast beta job. You're a superstar, boo ♥ Title is from "Fever" by Peggy Lee.

Frank has been on the phone with the Galleria Erratica for over an hour and, by his conservative estimate, has talked to every single employee there. Possibly including the janitor. He's not sure if it's prejudice or general artistic incompetence that's keeping him in this endless loop, but he's about ready to claw his eyes out. Sitting on the phone, waiting for the manager to give him a direct answer about shipping reimbursements, he can't think about anything besides how horrible he feels. His head is pounding, a low bass thrum at the back of his skull that makes him feel like he's slowly falling apart. The inside of his chest is ragged, sore and thick. He wonders what nasty thing clawed its way down his throat and took up residence there, because nothing else could feel quite this exquisitely miserable.

Frank is no stranger to sickness. He's been wheezing his way in and out of hospitals since he was a kid, but things are different now. He was already pulled from two assignments due to illness, and the third time is the charm. Three strikes and you're out; out is getting taken off the personal service rotation, shunted over to manual labor. Paving roads, digging ditches, endless hours on his feet in a manufacturing plant. Nowhere that's good for a scrawny sickly guy, and nowhere that cares much if a not-particularly-impressive laborer keels over. They don't have med budgets in manual; they call it "shrinkage."

The vaguely tropical hold music cuts out abruptly and the sudden change in sound makes Frank's head hurt so much he's slightly dizzy. It takes him a moment to realize that the director is _finally_ on the phone with him. "Yes. Yes, I'm...calling on behalf of Mr. Way. We needed to know how reimbursement for shipping will be handled."

He's holding it together, barely. Enough to scribble down a few notes about the address to send their receipts to, whose name should go on the envelope, the reimbursement caps. Enough to say "thank you so much, we'll be in touch" but not anything more. He hangs up the phone and leans forward until his forehead touches the slightly cool wood of the desk. That brief respite feels like paradise, and he wants to throw up when he has to pick his head up again and keep moving. But there's work to do, everything he needs to get squared away before Mr. Way comes home.

Frank is only a third of the way through this placement, but it's by far the best one he's ever had. Mr. Way is strange and awesome; he makes Frank eat with him at the little table that's still too big for the corner of the kitchen it's shoved into, and he's never rapped Frank across the knuckles for misfiling something or made him kneel for hours because he was impolite to a citizen on the phone. When Frank does something wrong, Mr. Way says "Oops!" like Frank just made a _mistake_ like anyone else. Like he doesn't have the option to dole out whatever non-permanently debilitating physical or psychological punishment he deems appropriate.

And maybe being sent to manual isn't the only thing that scares Frank about being pulled from this assignment. Maybe Frank doesn't want to disappoint Mr. Way.

He gets shipping labels printed up for three of the smaller pieces, but the other paintings are too big for him to measure accurately on his own. He'll have to wait for Mr. Way to get home to get those prepped, but there are still plenty of things he can do on his own. He just needs to sit down for a minute and breathe. If he closes his eyes, just for a moment, his head might stop aching and he'll stop sweating and he can go about his day like normal.

The sky outside the window is dark when Frank jolts awake. He scrambles to his feet, and instantly regrets it. His head splits and his vision swims. For a minute, he's afraid he's going to vomit on the carpet, and he has to hold onto the arm of the couch and duck his head to his chest to steady himself again. This bout of illness has been going for three days already. It has to almost be time to start getting better; he can't handle being sick for much longer, not if he has any hope Mr. Way won't notice.

He's lucky; Mr. Way is held up in traffic, so Frank has time to take a shower, get rid of the clammy sweat that goes along with fever. His hair is still damp, curled against his neck, when Mr. Way gets home. Most of Frank's personal placements have expected him to provide domestic duties, but Mr. Way always comes home with a paper bag full of takeout. There's always enough for both of them, which shocked and thrilled Frank for the first few weeks. It's routine now, but Frank still feels quietly grateful for each bite of lo mein or pad thai or slice of veggie supreme pizza.

"I spoke to Mr. Boyd today," Frank says, once they're both settled in at the table. It's small enough that his knees bump up against Mr. Way's sometimes. He apologized profusely for each infraction at first, but Mr. Way had ordered him not to apologize unless he'd done something _seriously_ wrong. Mistakes don't count. Frank tries his best to follow orders, even hard ones like that. "I got the answers you needed about shipping the paintings."

"Finally." Mr. Way snorts. Frank smiles, but even moving his face that much makes him ache. He's hungry, but the idea of eating anything makes him feel sick. All he can do is push his food around his plate and hope that it looks eaten. He feels guilty for wasting Mr. Way's money, but he'll pack it all up into individual containers when it's done, so it doesn't really count.

He feels comfortable, like he's getting away with it. He's almost adapted to the aches, made them part of himself, so of course, Mr. Way frowns over at him. "Are you doing okay, Frank?"

"Yes." Frank bites off the "sir," because Mr. Way hates that. He bites even harder when a shiver runs down his spine; he has to clutch his fork to keep from shaking. "I'm fine."

Mr. Way makes a face, wrinkling his nose up, and leans forward, watching Frank. "You don't look so good."

"I'm fine," Frank repeats, and he manages a smile that seems to satisfy Mr. Way. He just needs a good night's sleep. Everything will be fine in the morning; he'll wake up with a clear chest, cool forehead, free of aches and pains, ready to face the day. He won't lose another placement, not the damning third placement.

Frank can't sleep. He's too hot, then suddenly shivering and shaking until he's afraid his teeth might actually rattle out of his head. He can barely breathe through the congestion in his chest and sinuses; he tries everything, lying with his head tilted back or on his side, just to find a way that he can breathe through his nose. It feels like everything in his head is slowly unraveling, and he feels incredibly stupid, lying in the dark and crying but there's nothing else that he can do. There's no way he can hide this. He finally falls asleep a few hours later, sweaty and tear-stained and exhausted down to his very bones.

In his dreams, he's at home; his real home, his mother's house, where he lived until he was fifteen. He's sitting at the kitchen table, and he _knows_ that this is the day the woman from the labor office came to tell him his parents had gotten in too deep, not taken good enough care of their finances, that no one could get something for free. It wasn't _fair_ to everyone else who worked hard and paid for what they had, forcing them to support lazy and foolish people who spent beyond their means. What was fair would be for Frank's life to be put up for auction to the highest bidder.

He knows that's what day it is, but the painfully calm woman from the labor office isn't sitting across from him. It's Mr. Way.

"Frank, we're going to have a problem."

"I'm working as hard as I can," Frank says. He's himself, but he's wearing baggy jeans and a hoodie instead of his issued uniform. He's wearing his fifteen year old self's clothes, and when he licks his lip he can feel the warm sliver of metal that was the first part of his identity to be stripped from him in training. "I'm doing my best, I swear."

"We have a problem," Mr. Way says, but he isn't Mr. Way. Frank isn't sure how he could have thought it was Mr. Way, even for a second. It's Keith, the personnel director at Star One Labor, with his red face and his nearly invisible blond eyebrows. "Do you want to be a burden, Frank? Do you? Is that why you're so lazy?"

"I'm not lazy." Frank swallows hard, but his throat is coated and thick and he can't get any more words out. He tries to cough, to clear his throat. It doesn't do any good, and he's sitting at the table and choking, clawing at his own throat, trying to set himself free. The sleeves of his hoodie are getting longer, wrapping around his hands and wrists, holding him still. He bucks and struggles, flailing to get free--

"Frank, Jesus, stop it. Please, stop."

He wheezes as he wakes, inhaling more snot than air, and it sends him into another coughing fit. When he's recovered, he realizes that Mr. Way is holding his hands, grabbing on tight with huge scared eyes. They make eye contact and stare at each other for a moment.

Frank knows that he's failed; he's sick, obviously so, and Mr. Way is going to have to send him back to be injected and sanitized and shipped off to manual.

"Go back to sleep, Frank," Mr. Way says. He lets go of Frank's hands after a long moment, setting them back against Frank's chest. "Just...try to sleep, okay?"

Frank blinks up at him, but he isn't too surprised. Mr. Way is a nice man; he wouldn't force Frank out of his bed in the middle of the night. He's letting him have until morning, a last few hours in a soft warm bed. This time, Frank drifts off more easily. He doesn't remember what he dreams.

When he wakes up again, it's practically noon. His body complains when he forces himself up and out of bed, but he has his dignity. Star One's transporters won't have to drag him out of bed in his pajamas, still stiff with sweat. He shuffles over to the dresser and slowly strips off his sleep shirt, reaching for one of his standard issued gray tops. He's holding the shirt to his chest, steeling himself to move and put it on, when the door opens.

"Oh, good, you're awake." Mr. Way's cheeks and ears are tinged red, presumably from cold since he's still wearing a coat and clutching a Walgreens bag. "I got Nyquil and, uh, Tylenol Cold and Theraflu. I wasn't sure what was best. Oh, and Vicks. Why are you out of bed?"

Frank clears his throat, but his voice is still croaky and wrecked when he speaks. "I, uh. I'm getting ready."

Mr. Way blinks at him. "For what?"

"For transport?"

"For--Jesus fuck, get back in bed." Mr. Way shoos him, like some kind of mother duck corralling an unruly duckling. He doesn't even let Frank put a shirt back on, and Frank is painfully aware of how sweaty and scrawny and pallid he is. Hardly the healthy specimen Mr. Way was no doubt promised when he picked Frank from all of Star One's administrative laborers. But Mr. Way just walks him back to bed and sets the bag on the nightstand. "You're not going anywhere, Frank, okay? Not...you're just not."

Once Frank is under the covers, his eyes fall shut again. He's so _tired_ , and then there's the sharp smell of medicine and cool gel under his nose and on his chest. It makes his head feel full, but it also lets him take his first deep breath in days. Frank isn't sure if it's the fever or maybe he's still dreaming. But either way, he likes this much better than what he knows is waiting for him in reality.

Frank has a difficult time tracking what's happening around him. He sleeps, and is woken up to swallow some pills, then hushed back to sleep. He's not sure what the pills were, but the next time he wakes up, his head doesn't hurt and he can swallow without coughing. He nibbles at saltines and sips slightly flat 7-UP through a straw, and moans quietly when a cool hand brushes his sweaty hair away from his forehead. It's nothing like being in the infirmary at Star One; that's all needles and beeping equipment, IV drips and the smell of latex. In an infirmary bed, he feels alone, no matter how many doctors and nurses are bustling around him. Here, he feels like he's in a cocoon, warm and safe.

Mr. Way is taking care of him. Frank realizes this after a few drifts in and out of consciousness. His fever is starting to clear, he thinks, and Mr. Way is sitting on the edge of his bed, squinting at the tiny text on the back of some package of medication. Frank croaks a little when he tries to clear his throat, and Mr. Way jumps.

"Frankie? How are you feeling?"

"Better," Frank whispers. It's easier to talk, less painful, and if he keeps his voice down, maybe he won't wake himself up and find out it was a fever dream after all.

"Good." Mr. Way's smile is always amazing, crooked and entirely unselfconscious. It makes Frank's chest tighten up, even when it isn't filled with snot. It makes him want to smile back. "I was worried for a minute there."

"You don't have to worry." Frank lets his lashes drag his eyelids down halfway and smiles a little bit. "I'm sure Star One will give you a rebate. For all the time you've lost."

The smile disappears just as quickly as it broke; Frank doesn't know what he did wrong. "I don't want a _rebate_ , Frank. I was worried about you, not my money."

Frank isn't sure what to say, so he diverts his gaze, staring towards Mr. Way's knees. He's ready to fall asleep again, only holding on so as not to be rude. "I'm sorry, Mr. Way."

Mr. Way huffs and his hand is cool and startling against Frank's chin, curling around his jaw. "Gerard. Please, just call me Gerard. Even if you can't out there...in here, at least."

"I'm sorry, Gerard," Frank repeats dutifully, but Mr. Way doesn't let go of his face. He strokes his thumb gently over Frank's cheek, and Frank fights the urge to push into it like a cat.

"Don't be sorry, Frank. _I'm_ sorry. I should have realized how sick you were long before this."

Frank snorts, too sick and tired to hold himself back. The way Mr. Way stares at him is almost funny, and Frank licks his lips. "I was...hiding it. I'm glad you didn't notice. All that effort for nothing."

"Why the hell would you hide it?"

"You're the third," Frank says. He's exhausted, and he's feeling _better_ , honestly, but the fight against this flu has sapped every last bit of strength from his body. And Mr. Way wants to be called by his first name, and he's _apologizing_ , so honestly, Frank isn't so sure that this isn't a dream. "Third time's the charm."

"The third? Third what?"

"Third time I'd get pulled. I'm...sickly." Frank waggles his fingers in Mr. Way's general direction. "You only get three chances. Anything else is...excessive and burdensome."

Mr. Way is quiet for a long time. Frank almost falls asleep, but he speaks again. Quiet, but Frank can hear him. "What happens after you use all your chances?"

Frank yawns. "You go manual."

"Manual...manual labor? That's...I thought that was for delinquents."

"Getting pulled counts."

"Even for medical reasons? That's ridiculous. Frankie, that's fucking terrible."

Frank hums his agreement, because Mr. Way seems upset. It doesn't do him any good to get pissed about the policies. He learned that when he was sixteen, after a year of hard training. They said that it was like boot camp, and it was, in a way. They certainly broke you down, but no one ever built you back up again.

The conversation must be over, because Frank drifts off again. When he wakes up, he can breathe. He sits up, slowly, but his head just aches slightly. No nausea-inducing swimming. He's getting better; he can feel that all the way down into his toes. His body is lighter, and it doesn't hurt too much to get out of bed.

He bypasses the dresser this time and wanders out into the loft. Mr. Way is sitting on the couch with a magazine, but he looks up as soon as he hears Frank's footsteps. "Frankie? You shouldn't be out of bed."

"I'm better," Frank says, and he _sounds_ better. It's easier to talk, even though his mouth is a little dry, and he smiles. "Much better. Thank you."

"I. Sure." Mr. Way wrinkles his nose, but he's blushing a little, and he waves his hand. "You would have been better a hell of a lot sooner if you didn't try to just...waste away in secret on me."

"I wouldn't have wasted away." Frank is blushing too, maybe, and he comes to sit next to Mr. Way on the couch. He's never done this before, but Mr. Way sat with him. He fed him saltines piece by piece and bought him medicine and put cool washcloths on his forehead. He didn't even call Star One when Frank was obviously out of commission. "But thank you for taking care of me."

He leans in a little, and he's never done _this_ before either, but Mr. Way sort of jumps away from him and says in one breath, "I bought out your contract."

Frank stops and stares at him, all his previous intentions placed firmly on hold. "You what?"

"I bought it out." Mr. Way says again. His cheeks are definitely pink now, and he fiddles with the hem of his shirt while he talks. "This morning, uh, while you were still asleep."

Frank wonders, again, if he's still asleep, ravaged by a fever that makes his mind show him all sorts of impossible things. "Why would you do that?"

"Because if I'm not the third, someone else will be." Mr. Way looks back at him now. He's still fidgeting, but he stares with a determination that Frank recognizes, when you know that it's too important to look away. "And I couldn't...I couldn't ever let that happen to you."

Frank feels like he's been unfrozen. He's known what he wanted to do since he opened his eyes this morning, but now there's no way for him to hold back. Not when Mr. Way has spent what has to be an exorbitant amount of money for _him_. There's a reason most people don't actually own private laborers; the cost of a contract plus a lifetime's expenses for feeding, dressing, housing, and keeping your laborer in working condition is insurmountable to most. Even those who can afford it know it's much more reasonable to rent a worker out for as long as you need one, with the majority of expenses defrayed by the labor company.

But Mr. Way bought out his contract, bound Frank to him for ostensibly the rest of his life. Not because of the quality of his service (though Frank is sure his service has been exceptional, apart from this illness), but to _protect_ Frank. Because he actually thought about Frank as a person, and knew that not everyone who took Frank for an assignment would be so generous.

He leans in to kiss Mr. Way softly, just at the corner of his mouth. Frank's lips are dry and cracked, but Mr. Way's are soft and warm. " _Thank you_ , Gerard."

*

Gerard won't let him do any more than kiss for _weeks_.

"I just want you to be healthy," he squawks, dancing away whenever Frank tries to get handsy. Frank knows that it's more than just his being sick, since a long overdue visit to the doctor had netted him antibiotics that have him breathing and moving just fine. They've gotten all of Gerard's paintings packed up and off to the gallery, and the show is only a week away. Gerard is nervous about all that, but more than that, Frank can tell that he's nervous about _them_.

Frank still belongs to him; he belongs to him even more completely, really, now that Gerard holds his contract. Gerard's gotten all flustered, though, obsessed with making things "equal," giving Frank breaks and days off that Frank doesn't _want_ , at least at first. Working is all he's known for the past six years of his life. It's a hard habit to break, but books from the library, a shiny new iPod that he's still a little afraid to hold, and Netflix streaming have done a lot to help him get over his desire to keep busy. He's relearning what it's like to live in the world, instead of just work to support it. It's slow and hard, but this learning is work that he's _happy_ to do--thrilled, even.

The only thing that could make it better is if Gerard got over his owner's guilt and let Frank _touch_ him.

They've shared Gerard's big bed before (fully clothed, of course), so Frank has no shyness about crawling in alongside Gerard after he brushes his teeth. Gerard is sitting up against the headboard with a sketchpad propped up on his knees.

Frank settles in against him, with his cheek pressed to Gerard's shoulder. He feels indulgent and _insubordinate_ , taking liberties like this, and it feels so fucking good. He thinks he might be rediscovering the rebellious punk side they worked so hard to drum out of him. "Already working on your next big show?"

"Always," Gerard mumbles around the pen cap between his teeth. He glances sideways over at Frank and smiles a little.

Frank sits quietly with him for a while, watching the shapes and shadows forming under the loose movement of his pen, then clears his throat. "I'm fine, now. Totally over it."

Gerard doesn't look up from his sketch, which seems to be a man with melting hands. "Over what?"

Frank sighs, but he's a little grateful to not have to talk about this with Gerard's eyes on him. "I'm not sick anymore. I'm _healthy_."

"Oh," Gerard says, distracted. Then he actually looks over at Frank, cap falling out of his mouth and disappearing into the bedspread. " _Oh_." It isn't fair that he should look so good with his mouth hanging open.

"Yeah." Frank grins. His chest feels tight, like when he was sick, but he definitely doesn't want to curl up wheezing in bed now. "I'm ready."

"Are you sure?" Gerard looks painfully serious. "You don't have to do this."

"I know." Frank is more than sure. He feels _good_ about this; as much as he's hated waiting, he knows that Gerard hasn't hated it enough to give in. Gerard, Frank is sure, would wait forever if that’s what Frank wanted. Frank actually believes that he doesn't have to, and it makes him want to even more. "I want to."

It seems that Gerard believes him. He sets his sketchpad on the nightstand and pulls Frank in close to kiss him hard. It's hot, like the best kind of fever, and Frank can't do anything but moan. He sucks on Gerard's tongue, slides his hand through Gerard's hair to hold on tight, so no one can pull him away. It's hot and heavy, kissing until Frank's lips are buzzing.

"God, Frankie." Gerard pulls back enough to pant, hot against Frank's neck. "Want you so fucking bad, Jesus."

"You too," Frank groans and rubs his hand up Gerard's back up under his shirt. They're still fucking _dressed_ , and Frank is sick of waiting. He tugs at Gerard's shirt, arching against him. "Get naked already, come on."

Gerard shifts back immediately, pulling his shirt up and over his head. Frank follows suit and finally they're skin to skin. He shudders, sliding and slides his hand along Gerard's pale side, so warm and soft, and says, "I want you to fuck me."

"What?" Gerard stares down at him, but Frank refuses to look way. He stares back, resolved, and Gerard groans, rolling away from him. Frank scrambles out of his jeans and boxers and rolls onto his belly, going up on his knees to present his ass. It's training, ingrained so deep he does it automatically. His forehead is pressed against the pillow and he huffs against the fabric, trying to catch his breath.

He shudders when he feels Gerard's hand on his bare hip, but Gerard is pulling him down onto his back, forcing him to look up. Gerard is sweaty already, his hair all stringy and in his face, but his eyes are wide and earnest. "Don't do that. Not for me."

Frank wants to tell him it's fine, he doesn't _care_ as long as Gerard hurries up and gets inside him. But Gerard pulls him closer, fingers already slick, and Frank doesn't have any words.

Gerard opens him up quickly but carefully, much more carefully than anyone's done for him before. He keeps kissing him too, soft ones along Frank's shoulder and up his neck. Frank doesn't remember the last time he ached like this, so fucking hard with Gerard's fingers thick and hot inside him and his breath on Frank's sweaty skin.

He's given himself over to it, so under the sensation that he doesn't notice until Gerard is sliding his fingers out and rubbing Frank's hip. "Frankie, c'mere. Come on."

"What?" Frank is so turned on he's stupid. He lets Gerard tug him up onto his knees, and then into Gerard's lap. Slowly, Gerard guides him down onto his cock. Frank wraps his arms around Gerard's neck and his legs around his waist. They fit together so well, every inch pressed together, and Frank whines into Gerard's mouth as he rocks so slowly on his dick. Gerard holds his hips tight, tight enough that he'll leave a constellation of dark bruises.

It's been so long, and Gerard is so _good_ , Frank can't wait. It's intimate and raw and hot as fuck, everything that Frank could have dreamed but never dared hope for. He cups Gerard’s shoulders while he moves over his dick, breathing in through his nose and exhaling in hot pants. Gerard is solid everywhere, and Frank has to catalog his body to keep from coming. Gerard’s broad shoulders under his hands, the strong span of his back against the press of Frank’s calves. And his cock, thick and hot and filling Frank all the way up.

He would suffer this fever every night if he could and in the mornings too. It’s one that makes him feel lighter, sharper inside instead of muzzled and foggy, and though this is only the beginning, he has a feeling this fever will never burn out. He strokes his cock a few times before he comes, splattering both of their bellies.

"So good, Frankie, that's right." Gerard kisses him, taking him though it while he keeps rocking slowly, working his cock in deep. "So glad you're mine."

Frank moans through it all, overstimulated and loving it, until Gerard finally comes.

He stretches out in bed, reveling in the soreness, the ability to breathe unimpeded, the smell of Gerard's shampoo on the pillows. Gerard settles in beside him again and wraps his arm across Frank's middle with a happy sigh. "You still okay?"

"No," Frank mumbles, leaning in to bury his nose in Gerard's neck. "I think your dick gave me pneumonia."

Gerard yawns, and Frank is pretty sure he can feel him smile. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Frank smiles too, running his hand down to cup Gerard’s hip. “I’m sickly enough already. I’m supposed to avoid additional health hazards.”

“Don’t worry.” Gerard sounds like he’s half asleep, and Frank is following soon after him. The air in the bedroom is cool on his skin, soothing and fresh. “I’ll always nurse you back to health."


End file.
